


Foxclove

by FrancesHouseman



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Arson, Crying Dean, Fighting boys (men?), First Time, M/M, Sam dressed as a mortgage advisor (blame Linden), Sam in a Suit, Sex on the Impala, Sibling Incest, Stanford Angst, not necessarily in that order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:05:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3339647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The fuck is the matter with you anyway?” Sam follows him around when Dean turns away to settle against the Impala. He positions himself square-on in challenge, giving Dean no quarter. </p><p><i>I want to fuck you up</i>, Dean thinks, <i>Get your suit all dirty</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spring *will* come - I promise. It always does.

 

There could be bodies anywhere or nowhere and the only solution to the sheer number of ghosts walking the corridors is to burn the manor house to the ground and have done with it. Knowing their luck, some will be left behind but hopefully nobody will venture this far from civilization to fall foul of the perpetually earth-bound. It's the best they can do.

 

Dean is having a bad day. They're finely attuned to each other's moods, and it's obvious to Sam that today Dean is sulking. Why Dean should be sulking is a mystery because they've been getting along fine. It's a beautiful spring morning and Dean has had his fill of coffee, heart attack breakfast foods and hair metal. Sam's not too worried though: he's pretty sure arson on this scale will make Dean forget all about whatever has crawled up his ass.

 

The mansion looms over them like it knows what they're planning. There's barely any brick showing through the Virginia creeper-gone-wild and the effect is that of a rectangular plant-monster with many black glass eyes.

 

Valerie Rideau's car tyres kick up gravel as she leaves. She's Grantham Hewitt's grand daughter and sole heir. And she's insured: Sam checked. In fact, Sam now knows way more about her personal affairs than he could possibly need to, having spent the last hour masquerading as an independent financial advisor.

 

Now that she's gone Sam finds it difficult to remember her face. She'd had a thick shining fringe and glasses, and his lasting impression of her is of her bright silk scarf and perfume. In fact she might as well have been in disguise because Sam doubts he'd be able to pick her out of a police line-up. Maybe he and Dean should take a leaf out of Valerie Rideau's book and go heavier with the accessories. Their faces have been gracing police files for a good decade after all, and it's a big country but sometimes it's a small world. He'll run it by Dean later.

 

Sam takes off his suit jacket. It's warming up nicely, promising to be a beautiful day, and there's no point in sweating though the jacket as well as the shirt. He rolls up his sleeves and loosens his tie, enjoying the sun on his forearms. Dean has always been insanely jealous of Sam's easy tanning skin, and although they've barely had a month of spring Sam is already golden brown. He slings the jacket over a shoulder, and gives Dean his most cheery smile. Dean glowers at him. Sam's hair is tied back in a little pony tail. He likes it: likes the few strands that have fallen loose to frame his face, and likes the feeling of cool breeze around his neck. Dean kicks the gravel churlishly.

 

“Would'a said he was crazy if we hadn't seen 'em for ourselves,” Dean mutters.

 

It's true. Old Man Hewitt may have been rich enough to get away with being called 'eccentric' but if ever there was a candidate for 'crazy as a shithouse rat' then he was it. “Think Mrs Hewitt's in there?” Sam asks, indicating the manor with a tilt of his chin.

 

“Nah,” Dean stuffs his hands deep in his pockets, which only adds to the moody teenager look. “Thirty five years of marriage to that guy'd be enough for anyone. 'Sides, Dad said she was cremated.”

 

Old Man Hewitt had made John Winchester's acquaintance back in 1988, and John had returned to Foxclove Place twice in the 90s with Sam and Dean in tow. At his first visit Sam had been ten years old. He shudders to remember it.

 

Striking a truce with John Winchester couldn't have been easy. Then again, getting any sense out of Grantham Hewitt was tantamount to a miracle, so John probably deserved most of the credit. He had agreed to overlook the apparently benevolent ghosts in exchange for extensive local knowledge and help with a rogue Katshituashku case he'd been working. The Winchesters have kept watch from a respectable distance over the decades but the ghosts have never tried to hurt anyone, or at least nothing has been been reported.

 

“He must've known we'd burn it,” Sam says, and he hates the ham-handed gracelessness of what they're going to do. Foxclove Place is old, with a rich and mysterious history but it's the only method available to them. The mansion is completely overrun with the restless dead and, more than that, this is unfinished Winchester business.

 

“Yeah.” Dean sighs. “Old man was nuttier than a squirrel turd but he wasn't stupid.” He opens the rear door and starts to wrestle an old colour TV set out of the car. Sam moves around to help.

 

They take salt and iron into the manor as well. Aside from a few gentle brushes of cold against their skin however, nothing tries to stop them. They position the TV set in the old man's bedroom, which is conveniently situated in the centre of the first floor. If they do this right then Valerie Rideau will be able to claim her insurance money.

 

Dean has rigged the TV set to explode. It'll take longer than the accelerant/lighter method of arson because they'll have to stick around and make sure the whole place burns down to the ground, possibly reigniting the ground floor. They really are a long way from anything though, making it unlikely that they'll be interrupted and besides, the manor's hilltop vantage point will give them plenty of warning if somebody does get curious. Grantham Hewitt had insisted on living above everyone else. It had been the least of his eccentricities.

 

The TV set begins to spark immediately after it's plugged in. According to Dean they have at least five minutes to get out of the manor before it catches fire, and maybe another couple more before it actually explodes, and Sam has absolute faith in his brother's pyromania. Dean, however, seems to be lacking confidence. He hustles Sam out, barking orders and making him jog in front, where Dean can see him.

 

The drill sergeant thing lasts until they're back at the car and forty yards back from the manor. Sam understands and submits to it meekly enough while it lasts: he has no desire to be trapped in another burning building either.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

By the time they reach the entrance hall they're moving fast, like frightened children running from the dark. A mantra of,  _Get Sammy out, get Sammy out,_ runs through Dean's mind and he imagines the sparks like a whip, driving them on. For a while, it drowns out the other thoughts: thoughts about Sam's golden skin; about how clearly Dean can imagine the heat of that skin through the cotton of the shirt; about how fucking much Dean just wants to touch Sam, hold on to him and push their bodies together. He's itching for it again by the time they're back at the car and out of immediate danger. He has to shove his hands deep into his pockets to stop his fingers from twitching. It's really bad today.

 

Sam's suit is light grey. His shirt is white and Dean thinks the material should be thicker, considering how much it cost them. Sam's nipples are faintly visible, but then again Dean can't help looking for them. There's a boring blue tie, slack around Sam's neck, and his hair is gathered in a ponytail at the nape. It's the ponytail that does it; that finishes Dean off. It gives Sam a slick, polished look. It makes him look like a lawyer.

 

“The fuck is the matter with you anyway?” Sam follows him around when Dean turns away to settle against the Impala. He positions himself square-on in challenge, giving Dean no quarter.

 

 _I want to fuck you up_ , Dean thinks, _Get your suit all dirty._ “Leave it Sam,” he says, not meeting Sam's eyes. Dean knows that he's acting like a jackass but he's been fighting the world's strongest impulses to touch Sam. That kind of restraint takes its toll on a guy and today Dean feels like he's losing. It's exhausting; better when Sam brushes it off like he has been doing, but little brother has never been able to overlook anything in the long run. Curiosity killed the Sam-Cat.

 

“No really, what's with the sourpuss act?” Sam shifts closer, possibly in an attempt to get Dean to look at him.

 

They've never been good at personal space but Sam's pushing it even so. The white expanse of shirt is within easy reach and Dean makes fists inside his pockets.

 

“If it's something I've done then you gotta tell me man,” Sam says, and it sounds cajoling, sympathetic, but Dean knows better. A thousand fights have started this way. Sam can't be aware of the extent of Dean's simmering frustrations but if he's decided to provoke Dean into a fight then he's going to find out soon enough.

 

There's a snapping sound followed by a distinct bang, louder than a slammed door but quieter than a gunshot. The bedroom is decked out with enough soft furnishings for a hare-em, so the fire should catch quickly. An outsider might have looked at it and judged Hewitt to be a man of taste. Dean saw him eating garden frogs once though, and he's never forgotten it. The frogs had been raw.

 

“Dean!”

 

Dean's attention is snapped back to his pain-in-the-ass brother. Sam has crossed his arms, ignoring the explosion entirely. He looks mildly exasperated, like he's the grown up and Dean's a tight-lipped child who needs to 'fess up _and he'd better do it quickly_.

 

Dean straightens up, bringing them impossibly closer but Sam doesn't back off. Sam smells faintly of expensive cologne. It only serves to fuel Dean's temper.

 

“What do you want Sam?” Dean shoots back. “I'm having a bad day okay? Quit being such a bitch.”

 

Sam just stands there, waiting Dean out in his douchebag executive suit, and suddenly Dean's angry. Sam's so close, and yet the suit makes him completely untouchable somehow. He could be any grown-up frat-boy; the kind who calls the cops to the tap of a jaw, who falls foul of the monster of the week and dies with a dumb expression of outrage on their face. Dean could never succeed in their world. Sam on the other hand, he'd be a natural. Sam's comfortable in a suit and he talks their language. Other professional-types trust Sam because he fits in, believes himself to be just as good as the rest of them. He's better than any of them and too stupid to know it.

 

Dean gets the urge to reach for Sam and this time the impulse coincides with a crash from within the mansion. Dean's hands are out of his pockets and grabbing hold of Sam's forearms before Dean has realised he's doing it, surprising himself as much as Sam. He has a moment of indecision _(push or pull?)_ before common sense kicks in and Dean shoves Sam away from him, out of his space.

 

Sam staggers back looking murderous. Dean has crossed the line that separates the decent folk of America from guys like him and Sam.

 

It has been a long time since they settled things with actual violence. Dean has time to notice the smoke filtering around the sash window of the old man's room and then Sam's coming at him, shoving Dean into the car by his shoulders. Dean uses the momentum, twisting his fingers in Sam's shirt like he's been wanting to and pulling Sam sideways, off balance. Sam goes to his knees, briefly, and lands a sneaky uppercut to Dean's gut on the way back up.

 

Dean steps out of range, doubled over and winded. Sam might think he's the angry one but Dean is way angrier. No words are going to solve their problems now, and that's fine. Brawling is Dean's second comfort zone. Sam's little pony tail is still there, driving Dean crazy, reminding him that Sam could have been a hot shot lawyer; that he tried to leave Dean behind forever.

 

Lunging for Sam's hair isn't Dean's usual MO. He misses it but surprises a girly yelp out of Sam. “What the fuck is the matter with you?” Sam demands again, stabilising his position to block Dean's next attack.

 

Dean couldn't have told him if he'd wanted to. It's not even clear in Dean's own mind. He's angry all over again about Stanford and Sam leaving. He's angry that Sam's better than him, which is stupid because that's all he's ever wanted Sam to be. That idea makes him angry with himself, which makes him even angrier with Sam because today, while Sam's dressed in his fucking ace-executive suit, everything is Sam's fault.

 

Dean feigns left and takes a real swing at Sam with his right fist. He's quick and Sam only has time to partially block him, so Dean's knuckles come away clean but Sam spits blood. His teeth must have torn the inside of his cheek.

 

Sam comes back at Dean fast and he thinks, _Atta boy Sammy_. He hooks Sam's leg, blocking the hit, but can't avoid Sam's grip on his belt so they both go down, rolling and wrestling on gravel stones that sting like a bitch.

 

Quite a few of the windows are smoking but neither of them notice. There are ominous cracks and smashing noises inside the manor but they fall on deaf ears.

 

The fight is closely matched. Sam has the edge in size but in pure muscle bulk Dean has superiority for the first time in forever. The deciding factor is Dean's car key, which digs painfully into his leg. He's distracted, for just a fraction of a second, but it's enough. Sam flips him and he goes down hard on his back, Sam's forearm a steel bar of warning across his throat.

 

“Alright, alright,” Dean rasps, waving him off. All the fight bleeding out of him.

 

Sam looks suspicious but eases the hold and backs up, straddling Dean's hips. He has sweated through his shirt, now filthy with dirt, and the tie lies discarded twelve feet away. However, the pony tail has survived and Dean still wants to lick the moisture from Sam's throat. He closes his eyes and wishes he was someone else, someone who could deserve Sam; someone who wasn't Sam's brother, just for one night.

 

“Get offa me,” Dean says. He tries to make it sound casual, like he's tired and defeated. Sam sitting astride him looking like Don Juan straight from a sword fight is too much like one of Dean's personal porn scenarios. His interest is going to be obvious if he's pinned in this position for too long.

 

“No.” Sam tightens his thighs. “Tell me. What. The fuck. Is wrong with you.”

 

“Jesus Sam,” Dean closes his eyes again. Two of the upstairs windows blow out in rapid succession, _BAM, BAM,_ and they both startle. Dean brings his arms up over his head and Sam ducks low, sheltering Dean with his body and his own arms.

 

The new position has brought Sam much too close, and Dean trembles. His heart swells with the realisation that Sam's first instinct was to protect him, and his body convulses with an uncontrollable wash of pleasure. His cock is pressing up thick and hard against Sam's inner thigh, finally giving him away.

 

He can only watch as Sam's eyes widen in understanding. Lips part, inches from Dean's own and Dean is caught between the smell of Sam's sweat and Sam's breath on his face; trapped by Sam's arms, pinning his own arms above his head.

 

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam says, low and incredulous.

 

Dean bucks and twists free, getting to his feet. There's a never-ending well of anger inside of him. It's been eating him up his whole life and right now it's directed inwards: Dean hates himself. It's a familiar swell of impotent worthlessness and it's crushing. He notices flames dancing in the upstairs windows. They left all the interior doors open to encourage the fire to spread and it seems to have worked. It's the only thing about Dean's day that's going to plan.

 

“Dean,” Sam says, “ _Dean_ ,” like he's a toddler again and it's the only word he knows. He gets Dean against the car, no space between their bodies at all, and Dean's trapped unless he wants to start another fight. Sam cups his jaw and Dean watches him warily. He hates that Sam is taller and secretly loves it; thrills at the proximity even now, and hates himself for it.

 

“This is what it's all about,” Sam says, finally catching up. “You... Dean, we can _have_ this.” He presses his lips to Dean's, which are bruised and aching from their fight. Dean presses back, at first with his lips but then bares his teeth, the kiss turning to a snarl.

 

Sam's wrong. Dean has never been good enough for Sam. This life has never been good enough for Sam. There's no way that Dean should get to have this, but right now? Right now Dean might just be angry enough that he doesn't care. At this moment Dean is every local kid in a home town overrun by college kids. He's the quintessential rebel without a cause. He's a reject; a bad boy; a danger to himself and others. He's going to bring this smug, long-haired college boy down.

 

Dean slides down the car to his knees, and looks up at Sam with the challenge returned, plus interest.

 

Sam breathes raggedly while Dean gets his trousers open, the fire hissing and popping behind him like Dean's agitation. Dean is angry at the world for giving Sam unattainable dreams about being a big shot lawyer. And he's angry at the world, himself and everything else that conspired to make Dean fall in love with his little brother.

 

Sam's a big boy. Dean has had his suspicions (and hours of fantasies) and now he knows for sure, palming Sam's hard cock through his underwear. He makes quick work of pulling the underwear down too and then breathes Sam in deep to get the scent of him: musky and aroused. Somewhere above Dean's head Sam lets out a shuddering moan, so Dean tastes him, new and familiar both.

 

Dean licks Sam's cock into his mouth, and thinks about how they'll probably be side by side until the end, now. Hunters, brothers and soul mates, and this? It would be so easy for Dean to forget that he's not allowed this. He sold his soul for Sam but he sold it too late. He should never have gone to Palo Alto; should have spliced his soul from Sam's years earlier. Sammy could have lived. He could have been someone.

 

Sam curls his body over Dean. He grips the hood of the Impala and lets his head hang down as he watches, and Dean has to lean back against the passenger door for a moment and look up into his brother's face. Sam is so beautiful: dark eyed, strands of hair loose all around his face, all pointing straight at Dean.

 

Dean swirls his tongue around the head of Sam's cock, getting the flavour again and exploring. Sam's hips shudder, so Dean holds him still. He laves over Sam's balls, getting them good and wet and then sucking them a little way into his mouth one at a time. Sam seems to like that, judging by the high humming noise he makes.

 

The lost education still infuriates Dean after all these years. It's his fault. It's because Dean is needy and weak where his brother is concerned. Dean hates being needy but he needs Sam more than he needs food. He needs Sam more than he needs water. In fact, he needs Sam more than he needs _air_ , and the obvious thing to do about _that_ revelation is choke himself on Sam's cock.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Dean is sucking his cock. Sam can't get his mind around it. _Dean_ is sucking on his cock. More than that, he's doing his best to deep throat Sam, drooling and gagging and going at him like he might die if he can't get it all the way inside and swallow him whole. It's hands down the hottest thing that has ever happened to Sam and he simply doesn't have the willpower to make it stop, until he notices the tears streaming down Dean's face.

 

Sam hauls Dean to his feet, and then into his own body and holds him close.

 

“I want this Dean,” Sam tells him, “Want _you_.” He kisses Dean's face, kisses the tears away, kisses his wet mouth. “Do you understand me Dean? We can have this. We _can_.”

 

Fresh tears come then, and Sam rocks him and holds him. Through it all he can feel Dean's arousal, hard and tight against Sam's hip, and he marvels that Dean can be getting off on this, even as his heart is breaking.

 

The roof of Foxclove Place crashes in on itself, sending up a gigantic whoosh of hot air and sparks. They watch until the sparks have settled.

 

“Swear to God Dean,” Sam says, “This is us. I want you.” He holds Dean's face by the cheeks and looks him in the eye, “I want you,” Sam says again and Dean's muscles relax subtly all over his body, as though he's falling a little more into Sam's hands.

 

“Sam,” he says, and it means yes. It means them and home and always.

 

“We can make it work,” Sam murmurs, leaning back in to kiss Dean and this time Dean kisses him back, tenderly at first and then fully, with years of feeling behind it.

 

They kiss until the fire at Sam's back begins to make him nervous and they have to move around the car to the other side. Dean makes short work of Sam's trousers for the second time and soon they're touching each other, jerking each other's cocks like every dream Sam had that summer he was fifteen.

 

He explores Dean with both hands, opening his shirt to play with his nipples and running his hands over Dean's shoulders. Tracing fingers over Dean's belly makes Dean tense up, so Sam does it again, strokes Dean's belly with his open palm until he relaxes into Sam's touch. He cups Dean's balls, rolls them gently in his hand, head braced against Dean's shoulder for support. When Sam reaches further, behind Dean's sack to run a finger over his hole, Dean says, “Oh yeah, fuck Sam, lube in my bag, get the lube,” like he's been waiting for it.

 

“Woah,” Sam protests, although neither of them stop with the touching, not even for a moment. “Here Dean? Now? S'too much.”

 

“Not,” Dean insists, “Get the fucking lube Sam.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam says after a moment. “Yeah, okay,” and he gets the fucking lube.

 

Sam pushes Dean's head down until his cheek is flush against the Impala's hood. He wonders how Dean's bare skin feels, pressed to the sun-hot metal, from his tiny pink nipples to his hard, overeager cock. He slicks up his fingers and pushes gently inside. Dean tries to turn his head but Sam holds him so that he can see every flickering nuance of expression that crosses Dean's face.

 

Smoke begins to seep from the windows of the lower floor while Sam works Dean open. It's good news: they won't have to risk alerting over-zealous insurance investigators. Dean will be pleased, when he's capable of thinking about it. Right now Dean is busy making tiny bucking movements with his hips and small hiccoughing gasps. His eyes are tightly closed and Sam's pretty sure he's oblivious to external things.

 

Sam slips his fingers out, then back into Dean's loosened hole and bends over him to murmur in his ear. “In my imagination,” Sam says, slow, using his fingers to punctuate his words, “We've already done this. So. Many. Times.”

 

Dean groans. He's drooling lightly on the hood, probably completely unaware of it. Sam holds him in place and carefully pulls out his fingers. “Going to fuck you now Dean,” Sam tells him, lining up and breaching him, not stopping until he's all the way in. “Fuck,” he says when he finally gets there. “So _hot_.”

 

Neither of them notices their audience. There are twenty seven restless spirits in all. They gather at the windows, supremely unperturbed by the house fire but interested by the men outside; drawn to their heightened emotions.

 

The Impala holds Dean up and Sam holds him down, and between them Dean takes what he's given, still and quiet at first while Sam's gentle and then moaning, getting more vocal as Sam picks up the pace. Sam can read Dean beneath him, can feel when he's ready to take it, and when they get to the actual fucking Dean cants his hips and curses like a whore, like Sam always knew he would.

 

Dean's hands are pressed, white tipped, to the hood either side of his shoulders and Sam gathers them up and reaches over, blanketing Dean and pinning his hands over his head. With his free hand, Sam scrapes his nails up Dean's outer thigh. Dean clenches around Sam's cock and he cries, “Ngh, Sam,” like he's about to lose it, so Sam slaps his haunch, hard and Dean cries out again. His moans take on a desperate quality as Sam continues to fuck ruthlessly into him, breath hitching and body shaking. “Please,” he sobs, “Please. _Please,_ ” but Sam's not stopping. Wild horses couldn't stop him now.

 

The house collapses in on itself. Virginia creeper smoulders, dried out against the oven-like walls. Leaves blacken and curl, fall like volcanic ash.

 

Dean feels like he's shaking apart under Sam, twitching, juddering and burning hot. When he finally comes, slicking up the hood of his precious Baby, it's with a guttural moaning sound that speaks directly to Sam's inner caveman. Sam pounds him even harder, free to chase his own orgasm with Dean gone completely boneless beneath him. It's over quickly, powerfully sweet for Sam to bite down on Dean's skin as he slicks him up inside.

 

They're still for blissful moments afterwards while Sam catches his breath. He concentrates on the feel of Dean around him and the heat from the burning house, committing it to memory. Dean will almost definitely not be okay if he's left to himself after this, so Sam's not going to give him the option. He pulls out gently and starts to clean up, hoping that Dean will follow his example.

 

He's not disappointed. When Dean gets to buttoning up his shirt, eyes looking everywhere except at Sam, Sam stops him by covering Dean's hand with one of his own. “C'mon,” he says, dragging Dean away from the fire to the overgrown lawn. “It's been ages since we took some time out to lie in the sun.”

 

Foxclove Place burns out in just under an hour and a half. The walls stand like a blackened shell that will crumble and fall to the passing of time. It's another hour before the Winchester brothers emerge from the gardens, one pink and freckled, the other golden brown.

 

Sam changes into his his comfy jeans and worn t-shirt. He bundles up the shirt and trousers and throws them in the trunk. They're a lost cause, stinking of sweat and smoke. And the trousers ripped at the knee while they were wrestling on the gravel. He'll take the jacket to goodwill. It's a good jacket. He can probably exchange it for a t-shirt or for something Dean would like. “I can't believe we did that, right out here in the open,” he says.

 

“Yeah? Who's watchin' us Sammy?” Dean seems to be in no hurry to dress. His shirt hangs open and his bare chest and face are turned to the sun.

 

“God?” Sam suggests. He loves seeing Dean like this; can almost feel him crackling with energy.

 

Dean spreads his arms and turns full circle. “Beam me up Jesus,” he says and grins at Sam.

 

“How about we go back to the motel,” Sam says. They get into the car and adjust the front seat, now that the TV set's no longer taking up all the space in the back. “I need to get cleaned up but then... I dunno Dean. Maybe you can boldly go where no man has gone before?” He cringes a little when he says it, embarrassed by his own corniness. _Corniness_ , Sam thinks, _Must be a sexually transmitted disease_.

 

Dean's eyebrows rise in amusement and Sam's sure he's about to be shot down, but then the meaning of Sam's words filters through and Dean pulls his palm over his open mouth, eyes lazy on Sam's lips. “Hell yes Sammy,” Dean says, in a voice like the first rumbles of thunder, and when they drive away he lets his right hand fall lose on the seat between them. Sam reaches out, takes it gently in his own and holds on.

 


End file.
